Last of the Amazons by Steven Pressfield Page A

tales of the women warriors’ ruthlessness and ferocity. Next spoke Aristocrates the wrangler, proffering equally mane-blanching sagas.
    Then came Philippus. This fellow, a crack cavalryman, was a dear mate of Damon’s and, apparently, as wild as a weed. He introduced himself by the nickname he had been given in Amazonia—“Dew Lap”—with which the wild women had tagged him, he swore, upon remarking the scale of his naked manhood.
    â€œHere is no fiction, brothers. For my ‘dog’ swung between my thighs in those days like the clapper of a watch commander’s bell. I was hung like a Prienean ass.”
    The men roared. This was more like it. Philippus alias Dew Lap had fortified himself with a snootful of Ismar, the dark Thracian wine, and now, nosing into a third and fourth bowl, set to disarm his confederates of their apprehensions. Perhaps no war awaited, but love! Our companies might fend off kisses and not blows! The men clapped their wine bowls in ovation.
    Philippus spoke of the horse-derived nature of the societies of the steppe: Amazons breed in one season only, like mares, and as promiscuously. The neighboring tribes assemble, those trolleying globes of iron, in Philippus’ phrase, and a randy jamboree is held, lasting two months or more. Yet hold your jism, he counseled his listeners.
    â€œOne does not court these wenches, lads, but they you. To mate with a lioness would be as lenient of toil. Should you fancy one above others, a spiked heart will be your profit. For they call themselves
melissa,
‘bee,’ and like these flutter flower to flower. Nor do they know the word privacy. Two and three will take a man at once, jabbering in their savage tongue the while. And if you call yourself stud to hoist the tent pole, try it with three wild vixens disporting about you in a tongue you can’t savvy, and giggling. And don’t forget, bucks, that these bawdy bitches are horsewomen from birth; many’s the stallion they’ve gelded with the flint knife, so that it’s nothing to them, a chore of denutting. Recall this as they grapple your globes in passion. I’d sooner mate with a wildcat.”
    The men whooped and cheered. Many called out that they’d gladly take their chances, so long had this sea trek enforced celibacy upon them. Their mentor wagged a finger.
    â€œNot so fast, lads, for here’s more matter to turn over. When in shipboard reverie you conjure visions of these Moon Maids, each floats before you more comely than the next. Now fetch reality. For these ‘Daughters of the Horse’ may live up to their name! Ough, such faces! And if you meet their eye, out of curiosity only, they take the notion you fancy them. Then, lads, you’d better sprout wings, for they’ll run you down afoot as fast as a horse!
    â€œHere came one I loved,” Philippus twined his tale. “She set me up against an oak, lifting my skirts and seizing mast and anchor stones in both fists. I fancied this strumpet, by Orpheus’ lyre I did, and sought throughout the bout to woo her with amorous phrase. I would make her my bride, I swore, and bear her home across the sea. I extolled her beauty and besought her love.
‘Anora! Anora!’
she cried, with such passion I knew I had conquered her heart.
‘Anora, anora!’
I bawled in return, and when she had got my seed, not once but twice (aye, I was a younger man then!), and bolted, leaving me spent, I inquired of one passing, what does this mean,
‘Anora’
? ‘It means shut up,’ he replied.”
    More such lore was narrated, to the delight of all, not least myself. And now Philippus, turning to Damon, made jest that he of all could offer instruction in Amazon love, and summoned him forward. Uncle protested, citing his wounds of Hell’s River, yet such was the eagerness of the men, and so vigorously declaimed, that at last Damon must yield and mount to the